


sublimation point

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Multi, Pacific Rim- AU, as are craig and clyde, everyone else works in the shatterdome, kyle and stan are copilots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-03 09:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12745752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: sublimation (n):1. the point at which solid turns to gas without first becoming liquid2. modifying an impulse or instinct to one that is socially acceptable---Everything is red, angry red, sirens loud and penetrating. There’s nothing to protect him from the sound, and he only sees red when he closes his eyes. There’s no escaping, and his chest feels heavy, as though he’s underwater—underwater, he’s underwater. Precious oxygen is escaping upward in perfect spheres, but gravity drags him down, unconsciousness teasing him like a temptress, sliding over his body with a sinister seduction. He didn’t want it to be like this, but he was reminded that he was helpless, here, as the deep, endless blue tinged black and red, oil and blood—He sits up with a panic, gasping for air, chest heaving.





	1. gasoline

Everything is red, angry red, sirens loud and penetrating. There’s nothing to protect him from the sound, and he only sees red when he closes his eyes. There’s no escaping, and his chest feels heavy, as though he’s underwater—underwater, he’s _underwater_. Precious oxygen is escaping upward in perfect spheres, but gravity drags him down, unconsciousness teasing him like a temptress, sliding over his body with a sinister seduction. He didn’t want it to be like this, but he was reminded that he was helpless, here, as the deep, endless blue tinged black and red, oil and blood—

He sits up with a panic, gasping for air, chest heaving. The only sign of water here is his t-shirt, soaked through with sweat, cool and clammy. He’s about to wake Stan with a yell, adrenaline at an electric high, coursing through his veins with aggression—until he hears Cartman’s nasal voice over the P.A., telling everyone to relax, it was a false alarm.

_(God damnit.)_

Apparently their hosts were testing the systems and the dumbasses didn’t fucking tell them. Butters cuts in, reminding him that they were warned; of course, Cartman didn’t listen, because he didn’t know Japanese—and Kyle swears, falling back onto his bunk with a forced exhale.

If he had known, when he was eighteen and signed his name for the newly-created Jaeger program, that he’d end up in Japan with his team, plagued by nightmares, he’d have taken his chances with the Kaiju without being a pilot. At least, that’s what he tells himself, running a calloused hand through his curls, damp with sweat. While he knows Cartman can’t see him, he flips the intercom off with a scowl after it turns off. The giant clock on their wall, seated above their television, read four twenty-five in the morning. At this point, Kyle was sure he wasn’t going to get back to sleep. Not with this awful, anxious energy pulsing through him with every pound of his heart, loud in his ears and shaking his chest. He rolls, unceremoniously, out of the bed to stumble toward the small bathroom in their shared bedroom. Ice-cold water greets his freckled skin, and he gasps through his teeth at the bite of cold, though it shocks the haze of sleep from his mind. Now that he’s focused, Kyle is sure he can force his traitorous body to relax, fingers vice-gripping the steel sink while he took slow, measured breaths, reminding his body that there was nothing wrong.

“Why are you still pretending to sleep? You and I both know that scared the _shit_ out of you, too, and it’s not like you’ll get much more sleep when we’ve gotta be up in an hour. Do you really want the _fatass_ parading in here and kicking your ass for sleeping in on our first day here?” Kyle knows he inherited nagging as an anxious tic from his parents, voice condescending and pointed toward Stan’s bunk. Stan, clutching his cheap, military-grade pillow over his head with one arm, blindly directed an angry middle finger in Kyle’s direction. However, by the time Kyle has wandered back beside his bed, stretching so he can feel every vertebra in his spine pop back into place, Stan has sat up in bed, yawning and watching Kyle cautiously.

“You look sweaty,” he yawns, luxuriously stretching his arms above his head, interlocking his fingers while raising one eyebrow at Kyle. “Did you work out?” They both know he didn’t, but Stan knows better by now than to ask direct questions—now, he asks them indirectly, innocent enough that Kyle can avoid them if he wants, but pointed enough that they both know what Stan’s thinking. Kyle peers quietly at him under his eyelashes, leaning to touch his toes to avoid Stan’s gaze.

“No. I-… _Eugh_.” He has to stop, has to pause to pinch the bridge of his nose and stand, spine settling and shoulders slumping. He knows there’s no point trying to hide from Stan’s observations, but he tries, nonetheless. “I had a nightmare, I guess. That I was drowning. Lucky me, Cartman woke me up from it, though.”

“Jesus, K,” Stan tuts, rising unceremoniously from his own bed to swing his arms in lazy circles to get the blood flowing. “When has that, like, _ever_ been a possibility?” He sounds almost snarky, almost taunting in his question, but Kyle knows better, too. Kyle knows he’s prying without prying too hard.

“Oh, I don’t fucking know, how about when we’re fighting giant alien monsters in the _ocean_ , Stan?” Kyle’s retort is a snap, turning away from his co-pilot in order to make his bed, knuckles white with the unnecessary force he grips his bedsheet with. Stan falls quiet, allowing Kyle his frustration. When his bed is finally made, Kyle rolls his eyes before marching to Stan’s, making it as well—and this time, as he works, he elaborates. “I just… Honorably dying, or whatever, at the claws of one of those fuckers? Sure. Drowning because of some freak equipment malfunction, or-… Yeah. It’s almost fucking scarier. Also, getting gored would be, like, way faster than waiting for saltwater to fill my lungs and suffocate me.” He continues to frown at Stan's bedsheets, taking pause when the scent of tobacco rises as he realigns the tangled sheets, and Kyle's eyebrows draw into a hard line, Stan apparently not noticing his concern. It was automatic, taking care of him, and Kyle hardly had a second thought. The key to a successful drift was a bond, and some would say Stan and Kyle's made them the poster boys for drifting. They knew each other better than they knew themselves. Kyle knew all of Stan's bad habits, and Stan knew his, like the back of their hands. "You've been smoking, again?" He asks, quietly, attempting to direct the conversation away from himself while continuing to pull the comforter up and fold it over so that it looked neat--and without prompting, fluffing Stan's pillow just the way he liked. 

"Oh-" the query takes Stan by surprise, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh before he shrugs, defeated, and peers at Kyle for only a heartbeat before he's turning his head away. "Well, yeah. I've... Been stressed, I guess. Sorry. At least I didn't do it in the room, or whatever," he mutters, but he's not meeting Kyle's eyes, and he's blinking too quickly. He's lying, Kyle can tell, but Kyle can't seem to understand why Stan would lie about it, so he decides not to pry, finishing up Stan's bed and retreating to his own half of the room, rifling through his drawers for a fresh set of clothing for the day.

"You don't have to apologize to me. Jesus Christ, Stan, I'm not your mom," he mumbles, though he forces a laugh afterwards as he pulls his shirt over his head. He turns away from Stan so as to avoid his gaze falling onto the small amount of pudge that gathered on Kyle's hips, the littering of freckles over his stomach--all things he hated seeing in the mirror, things he never wanted Stan to see. It was one thing to share your mind with a person, but another to share your body with them--and the latter was something Kyle still felt too nervous to do. He was an _adult_ , he told himself, and there were more important things to worry about than comparing his body to Stan's, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Mercifully, he was drawn out of his thoughts by Butters politely paging over the intercom, asking all members of the American team to assemble in the mess hall for a briefing on their current situation. Stan is still blinking sleep out of his eyes, so Kyle throws him one of his own shirts, rolling his shoulders before promising to save him a seat and strolling out of their room.

The halls of the Japanese base are about as militant as expected; with large pipes running along cold steel walls, grates on the floor letting steam from the Shatterdome escape into the air up here, keeping it warm. If Kyle were to guess, it was a way to save on heating expenses. Even while his boots hit the concrete floor, the sound of his footsteps was swallowed by the ambiance of the base. The hiss of steam, distant conversations, an occasional metallic sound, doors slamming. It was easy to fade into the background in the soundtrack of the base, though as a pilot, Kyle tended to draw more attention than his peers. As he passes another set of rooms, he offers a wave to some of the Jaeger techs- techs whose names he never bothered to learn, but that he recognized anyway. They were ones who worked with Kenny- while Kenny was the only one allowed to suit Stan and Kyle up, he had a team with him, a team who ran maintenance on Vanguard Omega when she wasn't in the field, the ones who kept their drift suits polished and free of blemish. They worked harder than they got credit for, but that was the benefit of not being a pilot, getting to live in relative anonymity. As Kyle passes their bunks, he notices the door to Kenny's room is ajar, and furrows his brows--but Cartman's suddenly on the P.A., shrieking that if everyone isn't there in five minutes, he's going to-- 

They never find out what, exactly, he's going to do, because someone turned off the intercom at just the right moment, and while Kyle isn't sure of whether it was Heidi or Butters, he thanks both of them, mentally. It was too early to deal with one of Cartman's tantrums, and as he enters the mess hall, noticing everyone else's irritation, he was sure that no one else wanted to deal with him, either. Even though he's in his twenties, walking into this room alone still caused anxiety to settle uncomfortably in Kyle's stomach-- he didn't know where to sit, didn't know what to do in a crowd, but he was rescued by Kenny's arm rising from a table near the stairs, beckoning him over. Kyle's relieved, scurrying through the crowd in order to settle beside the other. Kenny always carried a faint smell of cigarette smoke with him, mixed with the metallic smell of oil and grease from his work. It reminds Kyle of Stan's smoking, though he mentions none of it to Kenny, who is instead complaining about the alarms that morning. Kyle allows himself to zone out of the conversation, only occasionally adding some sort of vocal encouragement to keep Kenny talking. His gaze is settled, anxiously, on the door to the mess hall, watching those who enter with a frown until Stan arrives, and Kyle casually, calmly waves him over. He seems pale, seems almost unfocused, and Kyle wonders if he really was stressed out. However, that fades when Stan grins and waves at Kenny, who doesn't even pause in his story, though he does nod. Now that his team was here, Kyle finally felt relaxed, finally felt the nervousness of that morning fading from his body, and he feels as though he's finally allowed to breathe. 

Kenny quickly falls silent, however, as Cartman enters from the upper level, Heidi and Butters in tow--Heidi holding a clipboard that Butters seems to be reviewing. In all honesty, Kyle wasn't sure how that trio ended up in charge, though he can't deny the fact that they all looked perfectly settled into their roles, looking almost regal as they paused on the stairs, Cartman peering over his audience with the air of a leader, an easy confidence settling into his expression as he straightened his back, clapping twice to get everyone's attention. Had Kyle not known Cartman growing up, he'd never have assumed the man's real personality was anything different than the leader who presented himself on the stairs, speaking in a clear, commanding voice over the faint hiss of steam.

"I'm not going to waste time with pleasantries," he began, and Kyle's gaze slipped to Heidi, whose eyebrows twitched into a frown. Despite being so close to the top of the chain of command, Heidi always seemed unhappy, and Kyle wondered why. "As we all should know, Japan's Jaeger program is the only one in the world remaining--attacks have been fewer and fewer, with smaller Kaiju--" Cartman pauses, allowing the crowd to applaud and cheer, and Kyle joins in, because the euphoric excitement of it perhaps being over was electric in the air. "But we're still here to do a job, and we'll do it well. We have the world's best Jaegers, and the world's best pilots." The crowd once again applauds and cheers, and he watches Craig and Clyde soak in it, waving and grinning at their adoring public. Contrary to Tempest's pilots, however, Kyle only offers a half-hearted wave in response. Despite whatever fondness Cartman pretended to have for him in front of everyone else, Kyle knew all too well what he was like behind closed doors; a manic, aggressive man who seemed to loathe Kyle with every fibre of his being. He continues speaking, simply elaborating on their current scenario, and Kyle stops listening. He didn't need to be reminded of why they were here, or their successes, or anything else that simply stroked Cartman's ego. He was sure that was most of what this meeting was, in addition to reminding the Japanese and any other international teams just what they were capable of. Their Jaegers were the newest, in the best shape, and unlike others, ran on nuclear energy. Their teams were efficient and worked well together and apart, and they had defended the west coast of North America for years. Kyle watches, disinterested, as Cartman allows Butters and Heidi to take the floor, explaining that there hasn't been any seismic readings for a few days, meaning they should expect some soon--to stay ready for anything. Heidi also explains the intricacies of Tokyo's culture, and what the Japanese public seemed to think of the program. The benefit of Japan, Kyle realized, was that they thought of the program somewhat positively. Now that the attacks seemed to be dwindling, many people in the world protested the continued existence of the program, citing it a waste of money and resources--surely the military could take care of the Kaiju?

_(They couldn't.)_

As soon as Cartman dismisses them with an almost eerie aura of control, Kenny stands, cracking his spine with an easy smile. "I'm goin' for a smoke," he drawls, raising his eyebrows at Stan and Kyle, curious. He didn't need to ask aloud, as Stan quickly volunteered to join him, but Kyle shrugged, laughing about how he needed to go work out. They both knew he didn't smoke, anyway, but always offered. Stan frowned at him, looking as though he wanted to say something, but Kyle shrugged him off with a wave of his hand, smiling weakly at the duo. When they finally turned and left, Kenny already opening a pack and placing a cigarette between his lips, Kyle once again feels the nervous energy settle into his stomach. It was like being touched with a livewire, like a push to go, go away, and never stop. His feet led him to the base's gym, to a treadmill, where he lost himself in the pounding rhythm of his feet hitting the track. He was running, though never getting anywhere, and figured it some kind of sick metaphor for himself. With a forced, heavy exhale, he clicked the speed of the track up, running faster, pushing harder, running, running--

Always running.

* * *

 

Clouds of smoke swirl around Kenny's head. Stan watches him lean, almost picturesque against the wall of the dome, peering out over the sea. He's contemplative, quiet in his thoughts while he passes Stan his own cigarette, lighting it with ease before silently turning away again. Stan allows himself to get lost in the feeling of nicotine in his veins. It's a small comfort, almost numbing. The pair is silent for some time, though eventually, Kenny laughs, turning to Stan with a raised eyebrow.

"Kyle's worried about you," he says, rolling his shoulders back with another pop. Stan looks at the dark, clustered freckles that litter Kenny's skin, dark from exposure to the sun. Before joining the Jaeger program, Kenny was working on rebuilding cities that had been hit. His hands were calloused from work, scars and freckles creating an intricate canvas that Stan can't help but study. His expression falls flat when he notices Stan's gaze, and he turns away with a click of his tongue, taking a long drag. "You can't avoid him, you know." Stan wants to argue, to say that, yes, he can ignore his feelings as long as possible. If he swallows his own down and ignores Kyle's, they'll never appear in the drift, and Stan can go on in his life without another romantic entanglement complicating things further. Working with Wendy is already hard enough as it is, Wendy's sad, stolen glances only making acid rise in Stan's throat. 

"I'm not avoiding anything, Kenny, I'm focusing on my job."

"Don't bullshit me, Marsh."

"I'm not," he protests, though the acid is back, stinging the back of his throat and making it feel as though he's burning from the inside out. He hates feeling like this, feeling helpless in the wake of his brain's chaos. While he'd never admit it aloud, it was easier to let his confusion fester in the shadows, hyper-focusing on being in shape, in working hard, and getting a little too involved in his rivalry with Craig and Clyde. "I just don't want to get distracted from what we have to do." Kenny's quirking an eyebrow at him again, doubtful, and he rolls his eyes while exhaling a thin, swirling stream of smoke from his lungs.

"When did you become so _honorable_ ," he muses, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to let his sun-bleached hair brush against the wet concrete behind him. He's a bright, warm contrast to the surrounding environment--clouds and sea grey and foreboding, Kenny's warm color scheme made him stand out, as though he were never meant to be there at all. He doesn't seem to be phased by the feeling of seawater occasionally spraying them, like a light mist that put Stan's cigarette out. As he reached to pull the lighter out of Kenny's hand, the blond opened one eye to peer curiously at him. Stan's eyebrows drew into a hard line, frowning before he quickly shook his head--he doesn't like it when Kenny analyzes him like this, and so he turns it around to him, letting Kenny squirm in the spotlight for once.

"What about _you_? Are you ever going to tell him?" Anyone with eyes can notice the way Kenny looks at Butters, the easy grin that settles on his face when he enters a room, their genuine, caring banter. Kenny's the only person allowed to call Butters 'Leo', the only person who the nervous man seems comfortable with. And yet, Kenny swallowed back any words with him, quick to tell everyone how platonic they were. "I mean, he's sure to find out sooner or later," Stan mutters.

"He never will, because I'm not telling him shit. He's too good for me, anyway."

"Don't bullshit _me_ , now, McCormick," Stan snaps, laughing dryly at how defensive Kenny suddenly seemed. He was clenching his teeth around his cigarette, lip curling in disgust at Stan's words. Stan had half a mind to simply needle Butters on the subject, but if Kenny ever found out, he'd gut Stan and leave his corpse for all to see. He didn't often threaten Stan, but when he did, he tended to take it seriously. They had an easy relationship, riddled with secrets never uttered to anyone else, floating into the atmosphere and tangled with their smoke. His fingers twitch toward Kenny, filled with a sudden longing to apologize to him, knowing that Kenny's insecurity ran deep.

"Besides," Kenny mumbles, snapping Stan out of his thoughts. "If I keep my eyes closed, you look just like him."

Stan recoils, curling into himself thanks to the bitter, quiet reminder that Stan and Kenny's relationship held more than secrets. It was a surrogate, an excuse for both of them to avoid what they were terrified of and simply escape within one another. While he was hesitant to admit it, he enjoyed the way Kenny never wanted to be taken care of when they got together, because it allowed Stan to simply feel with his body instead of his brain. If he allowed himself to worry about Kenny when they were both vulnerable, Kenny would only be another confusing layer to the web of people Stan had to avoid. Instead, they can both pretend that their physical relationship is a symptom of being human, a symptom of love that could never be realized. Stan feels the acid burning his throat, at war with the burn of smoke, and closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. He knows, intellectually, that he should just stop hooking up with Kenny, stop allowing himself to escape in the feeling of Kenny's hands on his body. He extinguishes his cigarette beneath his foot, reaching up with both hands to rub at his face, as though rubbing his eyes would change his reality. Instead, when he opens his eyes, he's left with Kenny peering quietly at him, frowning sadly, as though he knows exactly what's on his mind.

"We should stop," Stan offers, no longer able to meet his blue, piercing eyes, instead watching the sea crash against the concrete, soaking it through and permeating the air with the smell of salt.

"We should," Kenny agrees, halfheartedly blowing smoke out to the sky with sad eyes. Stan's about to say more, to say he had fun while it lasted, but the words can't seem to form on his tongue. He's interrupted by the siren above them spinning to life, washing the world out in an angry red, and Kenny drops his cigarette to the ground, eyes blown wide. This one couldn't be a test--this one was real, evidenced by the organized chaos that took place in the dome as soon as they entered, nodding to each other once before parting ways, words left unsaid and their story unfinished. Stan knew, whether it was later tonight or later this week, that he'd find himself tangled in Kenny's bedsheets again, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind when he broke into a jog, taking the stairs two at a time in order to run to the control room. He's greeted by Token typing aggressively at his desk, Cartman standing at the window with his arms folded behind his back, though he turns to Stan with a silent, questioning expression.

"What is it?" He asks, peering over Token's shoulder with adrenaline-blown eyes, foot tapping almost aggressively against the floor. Before Token can answer, Cartman speaks up from his position, surveying Vanguard with a critical eye. 

"Category Three, just barely. The biggest we've seen in a long time."

Stan wants to ask more, but suddenly, Kyle is at his side, grabbing his arm and dragging him up another flight of stairs, footsteps aggressive and loud on the steel beneath. Kyle has a bead of sweat dripping down his neck, and Stan realizes he went for a run, before this. The thought is fleeting, however, because Stan's already sinking deep into the pilot's mindset, chaotic mind soon falling blank as he remembered training, as his muscles tensed for a fight. Even as they were placed into their drivesuits, Kenny's expert direction getting them ready in less than five minutes, his calloused hands the only ones allowed to align the suits' spines, to ready their helmets. As soon as they're ready to go, however, Kenny says nothing, simply nodding once to each pilot before he rushes out of the room, down to the control room where he can direct them. Most teams have more people in charge, but Cartman seemed to enjoy allowing the head tech to direct the team as well, knowing that someone who knew the Jaeger and its pilots inside and out was the person most qualified for the position. Finally, Stan is alone with Kyle, and as they walk, confidently, into Vanguard's cockpit, Kyle offers him a grin.

"Ready to get into my head, Stan?" He laughs, as though it was ever easy, but Stan manages to force a smile onto his face, lightly punching him in the arm. Kyle feels different than he did this morning, as though the terrified man he was had no place here. Truthfully, he didn't, but that didn't stop Stan's anxious mind from worrying.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

 


	2. time can't capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There,” Kyle whispers, only for Stan to hear, and Stan doesn’t need to follow his gaze, already seeing what Kyle is. There’s a flash of blue in the water, circling them, and it’s obvious that whatever Kaiju is down there, it’s no longer simply curious of what they are. Louder, Kyle reports to Tempest and Kenny that they have visual on it, though they’re still not sure of what, exactly, this Kaiju is like.
> 
> That is, until it rises out of the water, a bat out of hell. It’s got a beak, almost bird-like, and long arms, ending in dauntingly huge claws. A tail thrashes behind it in the water, stirring up a current that would surely capsize any vessel ballsy enough to go out.
> 
> (Holy shit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess i should explain the roles everyone's taking.  
> cartman is our marshal-- our pentecost, heidi serves sort of the role of cartman's 2nd in command, i guess, or our hercules (even if herc was a pilot). butters is kind of an assistant/does everything... our mako. stan, kyle, clyde, and craig are our pilots, obviously. kenny and tweek are our shatterdome/jaeger techs, or our tendos. haha. token is our main scientist (think newt but cooler). wendy does recruit training, and bebe runs the nursing wing.

"Alright, dudes," Kenny's voice crackles through the comm, and they can distantly hear Cartman chastise him for being so casual. "You ready to begin the drift? Vitals are all looking good, you're in place, we're ready when you are." They answer in the affirmative, and Stan takes a deep, slow breath as the Conn-Pod begins its descent, and his mind is suddenly no longer his own. He gets flashes of distant memories, though he can no longer tell which are his and which are Kyle's. Here, in the drift, they were one unit, seeing through four eyes but two, at the same time. They had independent thought, and yet, it also felt as though nothing was his own. He can hear his own thoughts, and yet, he hears Kyle commenting on them. Hears Kyle ask why his neck is stiff, but Kyle knows, already, knows that Stan slept uncomfortably. He is connected to Kyle's nightmare from the morning, and his chest feels heavy, like he's drowning, and Stan softly apologizes for being such a dick about it. Like this, it's hard to tell which thoughts are his own, and which are Kyle's—though part of him enjoys simply being of one mind.

When they land, connected to the rest of Vanguard, they can feel the strength of her limbs, the purr of her core, but the human adrenaline coursing through them made it all feel more real. Kenny's speaking again, reminding them that they are to dispose of the Kaiju as quickly as possible while also watching Tempest's back. Kyle snorts a laugh at that, and Stan feels his lips draw into a grin, too. The competition between the two only seemed to get fiercer with each mission they embarked on, only fueled by constantly pushing each others' buttons. Almost immediately after Kenny's voice tunes out, Tempest is showing up on their RADAR, and a heartbeat later, Craig's voice comes through the comm, low and easy.

"Morning, fellas," he purrs, voice Craig's but cadence Clyde's. That tended to happen, in the drift--personality traits blended together. While it was Stan's voice that answered, Kyle was the one directing the conversation, Stan allowing the other to take the lead as he focused on readjusting to Vanguard's body.

"Hey- are we going to have to save your ass  _again_  today?"

"That was a fluke and you know it, assholes." That was Clyde, purely. The drift was interesting, that way, fluctuating between being independent and being simply an asset to the entire unit. One and the same.

* * *

 

Kenny's fingers fly, practiced, over his keyboard, one hand typing coordinates while the other moves his holo, attempting to find out where the exact point of entry was. His headphones drown out the buzz of the other techs behind him, though he can hear the pilots bantering as the helicopters take them where they need to be. There's a crackle of static from the other control room, and Tweek's voice comes in clearly to Kenny's headphones.

"I've got it, Ken- gh-" Kenny can almost hear him twitch, can hear him jump, though he says nothing, simply zooming in on the holo to the coordinates Tweek has found. "They're- gah!- pretty close, huh?"

 _Bullseye_.

Absently, Kenny notices Cartman slink closer, eerily quiet in his movements-he was passionate about missions, though Kenny figured it was less humanitarian and more simply because he enjoyed seeing the Kaiju collapse. He's sure, were Eric Cartman drift compatible with anyone, he'd be the deadliest pilot they'd ever seen. Token's suddenly in his ear, explaining that the pilots can't fly to Tweek's coordinates, so they should drop them off where they are and let the boys walk the rest of the way. All three fall silent, waiting for Cartman's approval, and when he nods, Kenny goes to work. Without even glancing, his right hand enters a command on his keys, putting him in to both Jaegers. "Hey, fellas. So, unfortunately for you, the weather out there is shitty. We're gonna drop you where you are now, and let you walk the rest of the way--I'm sure you could use the exercise. Tweek 'n I are sending you the coordinates so you don't get lost, yeah?"

Suddenly, Cartman is on the line, having snatched someone else's headphones, and Kenny steels his shoulders for whatever verbal abuse the commander wanted to give them. "Tempest, let Vanguard take the lead. We can't have you two shitting the bed again, can we?" Kenny's eyebrows raise, though he manages to supress a snicker when he hears Tweek shout in surprise on the other end. "I'm seriously not fucking kidding, guys, our reputation is bad enough as it is. If the people see you spending more time babysitting each other than killing the fucking kaiju, we're all dead. But mostly _you_ , Kyle," he added, voice syrupy sweet in his taunts. He had a way of switching it on, almost on command, his distaste for Kyle turning from simple angry hatred to something else: sickeningly sweet, honeyed words reminding him that Kyle would be fed to the kaiju if Cartman had any say in it.

"Yeah, fuck you, Commander," Kyle's voice answers, irritable, and Token hoots from behind him—it was always fun hearing someone stand up to Cartman, especially someone out of range of his tantrums. For a heartbeat, Kenny worries that someone there would suffer the consequence, though the reality was that Cartman's anger toward Kyle seemed to be single-target. Rarely did Cartman take his 'Kyle-Tantrums' out on anyone else, simply saving as much verbal abuse for the redhead as he could.

"That is  _gross_  insubordination, Kyle, and I could have you killed, for that," he spits, cheeks flushing an angry, unflattering red. No one in the room dares to remind him that he was only the marshal of the Jaeger program—really, he had no authority, and he’d lose his post if he actually killed someone. What a shame that would be, Kenny thinks, idly directing the Jaegers, watching Stan and Kyle's vitals out of the corner of his eye. Kyle's heart rate has jumped, slowly dragging Stan's with it, likely because of Cartman threatening him.

"Please, who'd pilot Vanguard without me," Stan and Kyle's voices answer-- it was originally unsettling to hear the pilots occasionally talk like they were one being, though now Kenny knows it simply means that they're mentally in sync, preparing well for the mission.

"That's why we have  _Kenny_ , dumbshit!"

Oh. Right.

Kenny McCormick had a rare talent- he was drift compatible with most people. It made him valuable, worthy of keeping around, despite his aggressive protest to being in the field. The last thing Kenny wanted to do was pilot a Jaeger, to have someone in his head- he much preferred staying here, where his thoughts were his own. In truth, he knew Cartman kept him around not for his mechanical skill, but in the likely event that they lost a pilot, they wouldn't have to go through the trouble of finding a new pilot. They had someone so compatible that he didn't even need to be tested with their current teams. He sinks lower in his seat, though he's rescued by Token's voice on the line, frantically announcing that they're picking up a lifeform on their RADAR.

Kenny immediately turns off his connection to everyone else, focusing solely on Vanguard, steeling his gaze.

* * *

 

Stan closes his eyes. He could still see, thanks to Kyle, but he quietly allowed himself to fade into the background—that’s why he was left hemisphere, anyway. It had surprised everyone in training, when star quarterback, popular Stan was left hemisphere, preferring the backseat. It absolutely floored everyone when Kyle—awkward, lanky, geeky Kyle—ended up right hemisphere. Really, they were opposites, Kyle lanky and pale where Stan was muscular and tanned. Since training, Kyle had put on more muscle, filled into his height nicely, but the pallor remained, freckles covering his skin so dense they were like a second color.

He doesn’t allow Kyle into those thoughts, putting up a wall before Kyle reminds him to focus on the  _fucking mission_. Kenny wasn’t lying about the weather, whitecaps cutting through the deep blue of the ocean chaotically while lightning flashed above them. They couldn’t hear or feel any thunder, though Stan figured that was due to how loud Vanguard was, a behemoth of steel crashing through the ocean with Tempest in tow. They fall still, Vanguard’s A.I. announcing, calmly, that there was a Category Three life-form nearby.

“Do you guys see it?” Craig’s voice crackles with static, the signal interrupted by the lightning flashing above them, and Stan hears Kyle’s immediate thought:  _don’t you think we would’ve done something by now if we did?_  Calmly, automatically, Stan moves his right arm, raising Vanguard’s and Kyle’s, and he only needs to think of powering up the Plasmacaster before he can feel the hum in his right hand, see the blue glow.

“ _There_ ,” Kyle whispers, only for Stan to hear, and Stan doesn’t need to follow his gaze, already seeing what he is. There’s a flash of blue in the water, circling them, and it’s obvious that whatever Kaiju is down there, it’s no longer simply curious of what they are. Louder, Kyle reports to Tempest and Kenny that they have visual on it, though they’re still not sure of what, exactly, this Kaiju is like.

That is, until it rises out of the water, a bat out of hell. It’s got a beak, almost bird-like, and long arms, ending in dauntingly huge claws. A tail thrashes behind it in the water, stirring up a current that would surely capsize any vessel ballsy enough to go out. It screams so loudly it shakes Vanguard, interrupts the aggressive rock that the boys always have playing. Stan simply grins, though Kyle lets out a shout of pain as the Kaiju wraps a clawed hand around Vanguard’s left arm—Stan feels it too, briefly, and suddenly he can no longer think.

Before he has time to aim the Plasmacaster, Tempest is there, slicing through the Kaiju’s arm with a well-aimed round of shots. The arm falls into the sea, leaking blue around the Jaegers’ legs, and Stan watches Tempest taunt the beast. As much as it can, considering its limited mobility, the Jaeger’s left hand waves at the beast before backing away, attempting to lure it away from Vanguard. The back of its’ head is armoured heavily, and Kenny comes over the comm, voice breathy in his excitement.

“Don’t shoot her head, you’ll just piss her off. Nothing’s getting through there, ‘ccording to Token.”

“Of  _course_  not,” Kyle groans, rolling his eyes—though they watch carefully as Tempest raises her sword defensively, anticipating an attack from the kaiju. Instead, it seems to be surveying it, tail lashing aggressively. It seems to be waiting for something, anticipating, and Stan shares the thought the moment Kyle says it:

“Tempest,  _move_! She’s looking for a weak spot!” He doesn’t give them time to react, winding his left arm up and decking the kaiju, sending it collapsing back into the water with the sheer force of the attack. However, seconds later, it rears onto its hind legs, clutching at Vanguard’s hull with the sickening sound of scraping metal. Stan feels himself scream as though it’s his own skin being clawed, hears Kyle sharply exhale, but he manages to press his right hand forward, Vanguard’s hand pressing against the Kaiju’s chest before Stan, in a fit, fires three rounds—he sees gore, sees her chest explode with blue, spattering the clean white of Vanguard. She's falling into the ocean, letting out an ear-splitting screech. Even as she falls, her claws scrape sickeningly down Vanguard’s chest, dangerously close to the reactor, and Stan feels his heart stop. This could be it, could cause the explosion that wipes both American Jaeger teams out in one fell swoop, and Stan and Kyle’s lives flash before his eyes, because he knows Kyle’s thinking the same thing.

He’s not even sure who notices it first when they see a blade puncture the Kaiju’s throat, decapitating the beast with a forceful, angry slice. They watch, almost in slow motion, as Tempest's blade severs the kaiju's head from the rest of its body, falling into the sea with a splash, water turned an unnatural, angry blue, kaiju blood staining the metal of both Jaegers. The window of the Conn-Pod is covered by blood, obscuring their vision, and Stan feels Kyle's anxiety at not being able to see, anymore. He tries to reassure, reminding them both that there were no other lifeforms on their RADAR. They were safe, now, they were going to go home, but Kyle's hands twitch, anxious, and Stan feels him start to chase a memory.

"Kyle,  _don't—_ " Stan can feel him chase it, can feel him slipping into the R.A.B.I.T., and Stan tries to send a distress signal to Tempest, but it's too late. He can feel their bodies going rigid, and soon, the world around him fades to blue, fades to the blue of the drift, of Vanguard's relay gel, and suddenly, he's simply an observer in Kyle's mind.

* * *

 

Kyle blinks his eyes open. There's sirens, outside. He drags his hands down his face, looking around. He's in Seattle, he realizes. Seattle, over Fall break of senior year, because they were going to look for colleges to go to. There's people in the street around him, walking, and the air is warm. He turns his head, trying to find Stan in the crowd, but he's not there. He'd said something about going to grab... A coffee, or something. Something inconsequential, something that didn't matter, but Kyle felt the need to find him, anyway.

_(Stan is shouting. Running toward Kyle, running through people because this wasn't real. He's yelling, telling him it's not real, it's just a memory, and he needs to snap out of it-)_

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Kyle hums, absently. He's always enjoyed the city, enjoyed the sights and sounds. He liked how it felt as though the city itself had a pulse, had a beating heart that he could feel below his feet, driving him into motion, exciting. He and Stan had always known they were going to go to school together, but now that they were here, it was real. They were getting out of small-town Colorado, and they were going to make something of themselves. Of course, Stan was probably going to attend on a football scholarship, but it was fine- fine, because Kyle had the grades, and everything was going to be fine, for once. They were finally going to be fine.

_(He's standing in front of Kyle, now, telling him to wake up, Kyle, come back- he knows this nightmare, because Kyle's told him about it-)_

Suddenly, the electric heartbeat of the city seemed more real. He knew he felt it beneath his feet, but the windows all around him were pulsing, shaking, and now he could hear it, hear thudding--and distantly, screaming. 

" _Stan_?" He shouts, head whipping from side to side, peering through the panicking crowd for any sight of him. He can't seem to move, though he's pushed forward with a surge from the crowd, left stumbling forward. The air is thick with the sounds of chaos, of cars honking, footfalls, screaming, and the thunderous footsteps of the approaching kaiju. A cloud of dust rises from a building falling over, and Kyle pulls the collar of his shirt over his mouth. The air smells dusty, smells dirty, and he can't breathe- can't find Stan- and he staggers to a window, leaning on the pulsing glass for any sort of freedom from the oncoming danger. 

_(Stan's beside him now, putting a hand on his shoulder. Kyle, it isn't real, this never happened-)_

Kyle wheezes, breaths coming short. He sees the legs of the Kaiju kick through a building in front of him, and he shelters his eyes with his arm. No longer can his shirt hide the smell of concrete and dust, clogging his lungs, and his chest rattles with the effort of filtering oxygen out of the debris. 

_(Breathe, Kyle, he yells, trying to shake him out of the memory-)_

Deafening in his ears, Kyle hears the building above him creak and crack, steel and concrete cracking, and he hears the kaiju scream, and he's going to die here, like this, and there's nothing he can do, and he can't find Stan-

_(Wake up, please-)_

Kyle faints, vision going black, and before he realizes what's going on, Stan collapses, too.

* * *

 

"Babe?" Craig's voice is dry. He takes his helmet off, shaking his hair out, and casually disconnects from Tempest. Tweek had taken them out of the drift a while ago, after they had disposed of the kaiju, but apparently Vanguard was still stuck in the drift. As usual, bizarre, ridiculous things happened to Stan and Kyle, just because they happened. They were experienced pilots, so the fact that one of them was chasing the R.A.B.I.T. was beyond Craig's comprehension. To his left, Clyde is running a hand through his hair, sighing and peering through Tempest's window at the other Jaeger. "Tweek, babe, what's going on?" 

"Ah- gh. We're... We're not sure, uh- It's like, Kyle's chasing a R.A.B.I.T., and- gh- Kenny can't pull them out, of it-  _augh_." Craig can hear him typing furiously, Heidi shouting commands behind him, and Craig sighs, blinking slowly before raising an eyebrow at Clyde.

"Dude, they're not doing anything. Just standing there. 'Cuz, usually, when they're chasin' it, the jaeger reacts, right?" Clyde's squinting through the storm, and now that rain is pattering against the window, it's even harder to tell what's going on in Vanguard's Conn-Pod. With a groan, Craig folds his arms and leans against the desk. If only a mission could go normally-if only Craig and Clyde were the favourite team, none of this shit would ever happen.

"Maybe it's not a memory, then," he mutters. 

"What was that?" Tweek's voice crackles with static, muted by the assault of rain on the window, and Craig raises one eyebrow, curiously.

"I said maybe it isn't a memory, babe. Maybe they're sucking each other's _dicks_ or something," he snaps, rolling his eyes, and Clyde snorts a laugh from his side, quietly typing their coordinates so that, at least, the helicopters can come get them. The static of the comm crackles again, and Craig expects Tweek to keep talking to them, but he's surprised by Kenny's voice instead coming over the comm, and Craig can hear the stress in his voice. Kyle and Stan weren't just his team, they were his friends, and this bizarre turn of events is surely stressing him out. 

"What do you mean, Craig." His voice is flat, though weak with anxiety, and Craig's eyebrows raise higher, still. 

"I mean, maybe it isn't a memory. At first glance, they're chasing the R.A.B.I.T., but more likely, they're fucking… Having a dream, or something. The mind reacts differently to different kinds of thoughts, huh. So, clearly… This isn’t a memory.” When he finishes his soapbox he feels oddly uncomfortable, as though he’d just ripped Kenny a new one, but even Clyde is quiet, after, one eyebrow raised at how profound Craig has suddenly become. His mouth is just a little open, the way it always is when he’s surprised by something—and Craig can almost feel his shock. It’s uncomfortable, being looked at like this and having nothing but radio static answer him, so he clears his throat, rolling his eyes. “But whatever. I’m just a pilot, so I don’t know dick about the drift, huh, Ken.”

“No, I… Think you might be onto somethin’. Jesus. Like, _look_ at—or, well, I guess you can’t look at them—but Kyle’s vitals have gone all slow, but Stan’s are still heightened. It’s like-”

“Like Kyle’s asleep?” Craig and Clyde answer in tandem, something they started doing after becoming copilots, and Craig never understood their sudden deeper, stronger connection. They blink at each other for a few moments, studying, as though one of them will eventually fess up to still being drifted, but nothing comes of it. For a while, the only thing they can hear is the assault of rain on Tempest’s body, and Craig’s quietly glad for the continued warmth of her core, keeping them cozy even as the storm raged on around them.

“Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Kenny shouts, quickly cutting the connection off, and Craig watches as Vanguard Omega powers off, slowly, painfully sliding into its’ resting position with a deafening creak of metal. Craig’s eyebrows raise, curiously, and Clyde offers only a shrug—but he knows what he’s thinking, because it’s the same thing on his mind: _what the fuck do the wonderboys think they’re doing?_

* * *

When Stan wakes up, he's not sure where he is. The bed he's lying in doesn't feel familiar- the mattress isn't his own, and it isn't Kenny's, always smelling like cigarette smoke and cinnamon. Like Kenny. The room he's in is a soft white, softer than the rest of the facility, and he realizes, absently, that he's in the nursing wing. It's confirmed when Bebe floats into the room, curly hair tied haphazardly into a bun. He offers her a cautious, hesitant smile, which she returns after some pause. She never wore her hair up- never wore it up because she never had much to attend to other than someone breaking their nose in the kwoon room, or something. 

"Am I dead?" He asks, trying to keep his tone light, but Bebe's eyebrows draw together and she clicks her tongue, approaching to feel his forehead with the back of her hand.

"Not yet, Marsh. Though you might wish you were when Eric Cartman gets a hold of you." Her tone is curt, almost cautious, and Stan can't figure out exactly what was going on. The last thing he remembered, clearly, was watching Tempest take the Kaiju's head off in the most badass movie-moment he'd ever seen. They were on a mission, and Kyle wasn't feeling right, and-

"Where's Kyle?" Stan can't keep the tremor of anxiety out of his voice, sitting upright with a jolt. Bebe rolls her eyes, tossing him a set of clothes, and suddenly drops her professional demeanor, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. She pulls the pencil out of her hair, letting her curls bounce back into place with ease, and she sighs. 

"Next room over. You both just... Passed out, at the end of your mission, and Kyle's vitals were dangerous. So, you're here-but you're both fine, so." She shrugs, sliding her hands into the pockets of her apron. "Who knows what's wrong with you two." Stan's eyebrows draw into a line, confused as to why he and Kyle worried everyone to the point of forcing them into the medical wing. The shirt Bebe had handed him wasn't his own, though, and Stan suddenly has an idea of who was so worried about him. As he stands, Bebe cautiously gives him a once-over with her eyes before pulling the curtain, announcing that she'd give him his privacy while he put real clothes on. The hospital gown falls to the floor, in a matter of seconds, and Stan tugs his sweatpants on. They're his favourite pair, the ones with little mesh pockets and elastic around the ankles. They're old, probably too old to keep around, but he'd gotten them in senior year, from being on the football team, and they'd been a mainstay in his wardrobe since.

_(No one ever said Stan Marsh was fashionable.)_

The shirt, however, is a different story. It's a brown t-shirt, worn in and so soft you can almost forget you're wearing it. It's just a little small on Stan, tight around his chest and shoulders, and he knows Kenny brought it because he loved how it smelled. The smell of smoke never seemed to leave it, but it also had cinnamon gum and fabric softener- the one luxury Kenny seemed to enjoy splurging on, likely on Butters' suggestion. He doesn't have a hat, and for some reason, feels naked without one, but the thought is fleeting when he remembers that Kyle is in the room next door. As he pads into the hallway, though, Stan feels a sharp pinch of pain, too real and yet phantom, and he frowns, rubbing his cheek. The hallway is empty, which makes sense- the medical wing was larger than it needed to be, likely a paranoid architect believing more injuries than actually happened in the field. Even so, Kyle's room is hardly far, Stan only taking a few steps before hearing voices inside, raised in agitation, and he grits his teeth while pushing the door open. His arrival is enough to silence Kyle, who blinks at him with tea-saucer eyes, looking even paler than usual in the washed-out florescent lights. Cartman, on the other hand, only pauses to glare at Stan. He's disheveled, hair messed (likely from running his hands through it), suit-jacket missing and sleeves sloppily pushed to his elbows. Kyle has a red mark on his cheek, and, seeing red, Stan realizes that Cartman slapped him.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Princess Marsh," he drawls, voice doing that _thing_. Sinister and sweet, flies with honey, Cartman's eyes were dark and hollow, expression not matching the syrup in his voice. "Would you mind telling me why your boyfriend chased the R.A.B.I.T. _after_ your mission?" Stan feels a prickle of heat in his cheeks, humiliated by the nickname and the insinuation that he and Kyle were anything but partners. Instead of giving in to Cartman's taunts, however, Stan pulls up a chair by Kyle's bed, sitting in it backwards in order to lean over the backrest. 

"I don't fucking know. I don't even remember what happened, you know."

"It wasn't a _memory_ ," Kyle mumbles, easily cutting the growing tension between Stan and Cartman. Almost in sync, they both turn to look at him, Stan's eyebrows drawn, Cartman's raised. "I mean- I guess it kind of was, but. It was a dream I used to have." Suddenly, Stan remembers, remembers the abject terror in Kyle's face, remembers trying to wake him, and he bites his tongue to keep from chastising Kyle, too. For once, Cartman is quiet, and Stan can't tell what he's thinking. He can, however, tell what Kyle's thinking- he's embarrassed that he let his mind get the best of him, embarrassed that he got attacked, and Stan's fingers twitch. He wants to deck Cartman, punch his teeth in, but he knows he'd get eviscerated for it. 

 "About dying?" Stan feels small, his voice feels tight in his throat, and he feels like a doll in the wake of these two huge, magnetic personalities. He feels pulled permanently into their orbits, like they were unstoppable forces (or, perhaps, immovable objects). He picks at a thread on his shirt, uncomfortable because he knows exactly what Kyle's talking about-

"Well. About you, actually. _You_ dying."

-for the most part. Kyle's words leave him floored, in a way, and it's Stan's turn to peer at the redhead with terrified, huge eyes, mouth hanging open in disbelief. That part was never communicated to him, in the drift. Even as he gawks at Kyle, Cartman lets out a booming, explosive laugh, so sudden it causes Stan to jump, almost giving himself whiplash with the force that he turned to the marshal.

"Jesus Christ, Kyle, why don't you just suck his dick already?" Whatever anger he had at the pair seems to have melted away, replaced by Cartman's favourite hobby: humiliating Kyle. The pleasure he seems to get from watching Kyle's face slowly turn a blotchy, angry red causes Stan's blood to boil, and he bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood. It's tangy and metallic in his mouth, almost disgusting as the person who caused him to do it, and he leans to spit on the floor. His blood splatters on the pristine, white floor, and he half expects Cartman to break his nose. Instead, he howls an even louder laugh, gripping the edge of Kyle's cot to stop himself from collapsing to the floor. "Look, _look_ , Kyle- he's so disgusted that he's puking _blood_!" He's practically wailing, almost sobbing with laughter, and Kyle looks as though he wants to sink through the floor. He groans, covering his face with a pillow, looking as though he's about to smother himself, and Stan quickly busies himself with wiping the rest of his blood off of his face. He suddenly does feel sick, though his illness comes less from Kyle and more from the fact that he's sitting here wearing Kenny's shirt while Kyle confesses that the nightmares that seem to plague him are about Stan, not himself.

When Cartman finally manages to calm down, wiping a tear from his eye, he regards Stan and Kyle carefully before folding his arms. "If it was up to me," he starts, and Stan bites his lip because it is up to him- "You'd both be out there, strapped to a fucking pole, a goddamn shish-kebab for the next alien who tries to fuck with us. Unfortunately, you're kind of fucking valuable- but you're practice drifting, you're undergoing psych evals, because we cannot have you fuckers blow it _again_." The mirth has drained from his voice, leaving behind only deep, dark loathing, his blue eyes suddenly dark and cold. "Do you understand me," he whispers, voice so calm and quiet it's almost disarming.

"Yes, sir," Stan replies, peering quietly at his hands instead of looking up at Cartman- but it was never really about him, was it? Cartman seems satisfied until he kicks the leg of Kyle's cot, startling him, and he throws his pillow to the side, looking mutinous. 

"Yes, sir." Kyle's reply is a spit, is a challenge, but Cartman probably gets off on degrading Kyle so much. He simply grins, ruffling his hair- a complete, utter invasion of Kyle's privacy that made Stan's skin crawl. Mercifully, he left, after that, leaving the two alone in uncomfortable silence. Slowly, almost as though he's not in control of his movements, Stan rises jerkily to his feet, grabbing the pile of clothes placed by the door, and dumps them unceremoniously into Kyle's lap. He looks up at Stan with a raised eyebrow, frowning, and suddenly Stan feels as though he's under a microscope, his every movement under scrutiny by Kyle's intense green eyes.

"Is that Kenny's?" He asks, tone almost bitter, and Stan must go pale, because Kyle huffs a short laugh, rolling his eyes. When he stands to get dressed, he turns away from Stan, not even looking at him as he continues his interrogation- though at this point, it's become more of an accusation. "I know about you two," he finally mutters, voice dangerously low. Stan sputters, feeling the taste of blood again, and he wants to grab Kyle's shoulder, turn him around and ask what, exactly, he's talking about- but Kyle's been in his head. 

It's over.

"... It's not what you th-"

"It's _exactly_ what I think, Stan. I don't give a shit, I just- why the hell didn't you tell me? Do you not trust me? Jesus, dude, what's your _problem?_ " Stan can feel his stomach bottom out, and he wants to throw up, or punch a wall, or rip the traitorous shirt off of his body, but he can't do anything. Can't do anything except stare, silently, at Kyle, as his eyes narrow. "Fuck, Stan, they warned us! The.. The modesty bias, or whatever, that compromises a successful drift because someone doesn't want the other to know about his _torrid_ sexual history? That's probably why I fucked up today, huh!" Kyle's anger is explosive, something he's clearly been holding in for a long time-and Stan wonders if this is the same anger that coursed through Kyle's veins this morning. 

"I-... It's not like that. We're not- we're not _together,_ or whatever you think-"

"God, Stan, I know! I was in your fucking head! You're his fuckbuddy, or whatever, because he likes to pretend you're a twinky little blond, and you- you just _put up with it_!" After a heartbeat, Stan thanks whatever God was out there that at least, if nothing else, he hid his reason for hooking up from Kyle. He was sure, now, that telling him was permanently off the table. The part that he did stumble over, however, was the fact that Kyle seemed angrier with Kenny than he was with Stan, as though he was assuming that Kenny was using him. He wants to jump to Kenny's defense, but he's no longer sure if that would only light the fire under Kyle or cool him off completely, forcing him to close off entirely. 

"We're going to stop, you won't have to see it," he whispers, voice smaller than ever, and he stares at the floor, at the wet splatter of blood staining the otherwise pristine room. Kyle laughs, at that, throwing his hands up with an almost hysterical air, like the words that came from Stan's lips were simply a sick joke.

"Oh, don't let _me_ ruin your fun, Stan," he spits, closing the distance between them. Stan's taller and broader than Kyle, could easily take him in a fight, but Kyle's sudden rage, the cold fury burning in his eyes is something he never expected to be turned onto him. Kyle presses a finger against Stan's sternum, hard enough to bruise, and the action forces Stan stumbling backwards, eyes wide with shock. "If you really think I'm upset because you're gay, or whatever- if you think I'm a... A homophobe, or something, then you really don't know me at all. If you really can't tell why I'm fucking pissed, you're dumber than you look."

 Stan's floored, left staggering when Kyle bodily pushed past him, storming out of the room. His electric energy leaves with him, leaving Stan feeling empty and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. how am i only two chapters in but almost at 10,000 words. help.  
> anyway i hope you enjoyed me switching perspectives every 5 minutes, haha. sorry if this chapter has too much going on at once.


	3. road to ruin

“Stan’s been a miserable sack of shit ever since their mission,” Kenny groans, tipping his head back and blowing smoke toward the sky. It’s dark, and the stars twinkle quietly above him—the moon is almost completely waned, leaving the world dark. The sea is black, the only light reflected the soft yellow light from the Shatterdome. “So, obviously, I can’t hang out with him.”

To his right, Butters laughs, softly, leaning over the railing. He doesn’t like to smoke, but doesn’t seem to mind too much when Kenny does it. Peering at Butters out of the corner of his eye, he sees his soft smile, sees the light dusting of freckles, just on the bridge of his nose. Kenny almost wants to trace a constellation in them—but that’s too intimate of a thought, so he boxes it up and files it away under ‘ _NEVER_ ’. “Well, uh, Ken, maybe Stan just needs a friend right now.” Butters is always so fucking helpful, genuine and kind—he’s almost naïve in his sweetness, it was easy for most to forget he was one of the smartest minds there. “I mean, he ‘n Kyle had that big ‘ol blowout, right? He’s probably hurtin’ over that.”

_(Little known fact about Butters, one that Kenny was privy to: he was a gossip.)_

Kenny answers with a grin around his cigarette, turning his head completely to peer at Butters, but he can’t quite swallow down his own hurt—while he knew it was for the best, to end things between himself and Stan (at least until things were calmed down), he still felt… Lonely. It didn’t help that Kyle was upset with him, too, shouting about how he _shouldn’t use Stan like that_. Which is why, against his better judgement, he began spending nearly all his free time with Butters. Part of him wanted to notice that Butters seemed even happier than normal, around him, though maybe that was just textbook narcissism. “Well, yeah, Leo. By the way, my involvement there- it's not... I was doin' it for Stan,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks burn hot. "He wanted me to be Kyle, y'know?" Butters hums, quietly, drumming his fingers on the metal. His presence is calming, is something of a sedative for Kenny’s overactive mind _(or, maybe, that was just the cigarettes)_ , and he allows his eyes to flutter shut with a content sigh.

"I know, Ken. What a hero you are, mm?" He's laughing, quietly, though his grin doesn't quite meet his eyes. “Even though the fellas always ‘re, uh, talkin’ about the weird stuff about the drift, I think I’d like to try it someday, ahah,” he murmurs, voice so soft it seems like a secret. Something no one except Kenny could know, and he peeks one eye open to peer cautiously at him. Butters’ cheeks are tinted a soft pink, whether from shyness or the slight chill of the ocean breeze, Kenny wasn’t sure.

“Really?”

“I- ahah, I mean, sure. Don’t y’think it’d be kind of fun to get inside someone’s head? To not be yourself for a little while?”

 _Ouch_. Kenny laughs, a little—it’s almost nervous. Nervous because Butters nailed it, nailed the insecure grip of Kenny’s inner monologue, and he fills the silence by taking a long, slow drag. “Well, yeah. I’d like to get into your head—” _(Slow down.)_ “Because you’re so… Y’know, happy-go-lucky. It'd be like a fuckin' vacation.”

Butters turns completely to stare at him, eyes wide, and his blond eyelashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, eyebrows turned into an almost-frown. Kenny realizes, not for the first time, how much he likes Butters' hair; shaved close on the sides with the rest, soft and fluffy, styled carefully. He somehow looks adorable and delicate while, at the same time, looking put-together and professional. It's quite the contrast to Kenny's scruffy, sun-bleached hair, perpetual bedhead making him simply look sleepy. Instead of continuing to self-reflect, though, Kenny’s gaze travels to Butters’ hands, watching his knuckles tap rhythmically together. It's a nervous tic he’d apparently carried his whole life, and he breathes a nervous, anxious laugh, shaking his head. “Aw, Ken, you don’t mean that. You don’t have t’be so nice to me.” Without even trying, Butters had reached into Kenny’s chest and tugged his heartstrings like a puppetmaster, like Kenny was his marionette, and he fluttered both of his eyes open, putting his cigarette out beneath his foot. Butters raises his eyebrows tentatively, and almost squeaks when Kenny claps his hand on his shoulder, grinning a lopsided, easy smile.

“I know I don’t have to. I _want_ to,” he explains, and he feels as though his heart is in his throat, like he’s going to lean over the banister and vomit, but then Butters laughs, cheerily. Something about him simultaneously made Kenny nervous and relieved every ailment he’s ever had—Butters was a paradox, in that sense. “You’re great. You don’t have to… Be all humble, or whatever. Cut it out,” he mumbles, trying to offset his adoration with a bit of tough love. It was easier, that way, to pretend to be exasperated. Butters seems confused, eyebrows pulling together. For a moment, Kenny wonders if he’s upset him, but Butters soon beams at him, punching him delicately in the arm.

“Aw, jeez, Ken, you’re gonna make a guy blush if you keep talking like that,” he laughs, arms folding atop the banister again with an easy grin. His hands are tapping again, rhythmically, and Kenny can’t help but compare them to his own. Butters’ hands are small, delicate—his fingers are dainty, almost feminine, his nails perfect. It’s cute, Kenny thinks. Contrarily, Kenny’s hands are broad, masculine—littered with scars and freckles. Burns from welding and calloused from working for years, rough from abuse. Butters is looking at them, too, he notices, and he carefully runs a fingertip over a starburst of a scar on Kenny’s right hand. “What’s _that_ ,” he murmurs, tracing the spiderwebbing outline.

“Oh, hah. I was workin’ on some electricity stuff, for the Rebuild Effort—” It was a job, Kenny told himself at the time. Experienced laborers were needed for the Jaeger project, so Kenny and a bunch of other boys, fresh out of high school, were expected to rebuild leveled cities from the ground up. “And, I ah, electrocuted myself, right there. I almost died.” He remembers it like it was yesterday. He was careful with the cords, because no one else wanted to touch them, for good reason. The cord was thick and black, like some kind of snake, and they were trying to wire lights in an apartment complex. He was going to connect it to its ground, but forgot that humans are excellent conductors, and ended up being part of the circuit. When they found him, he was still twitching on the ground, almost seizing. He’d been told the only reason he survived was some freak accident where the electricity stopped, and then almost immediately after, started his heart. After that, he was deemed death-proof. Butters raises his eyebrows, surprised, and his expression soon melts into one of soft pity. Kenny typically hated being pitied, hated having people feel bad for him—but with Butters, it was okay.

Most things were.

“Well, I’m real glad you’re okay, Ken,” he purrs, patting the back of Kenny’s hand with his and grinning, toothily. His smile is so honest, so genuine, and Kenny feels like there’s another electric current coursing through him, causing his heart to stop and start and stutter into overdrive.

_(Fuck.)_

* * *

 

Kyle's sabre hits the floor with a clatter, and it takes all of his strength not to scream in frustration. Wendy has narrowed her eyes, arms folded-- she looks guarded, from her position atop the stairs in the Kwoon room, and he turns to her with a pleading, pathetic glare.

"Wendy, please—this is fucking useless. We can't get into each other's rhythms," he groans, gesturing blindly to Stan, who is currently an uncomfortable distance away from him. Since their fight, Stan's kept his distance, and it's somehow infuriating. Stan's been by his side his entire life, and the sudden distance, forced and uncomfortable, makes Kyle's stomach turn. Even so, he was angry- angry that he was lied to, angry that he let himself actually fall for Stan, and angry that their entire career was jeopardized because of it. "We're just not on the same fucking page anymore." He can tell, just for a moment, that his words are hurting Stan, but some dark part of him enjoys knowing that Stan at least still valued his opinion. Wendy scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. You're not in sync, you're right about that. But obviously this isn't working. Maybe you two just need to, I don't know, talk about it, or whatever." She throws her hands up in frustration, just as angry as they are, and storms out. Kyle's left standing next to Stan, sabres on the floor. Stan turns to look at him, but Kyle refuses to, simply staring ahead while taking slow, measured breaths, trying to settle his nerves. He's not only angry that Stan has lied to him, but now that they've fallen out of sync, there's a new layer added to it—a new layer of frustration and hurt, and his hands clench into such tight fists that they shake. 

"Kyle—" Stan's voice is still out of breath. Kyle could tell, when they were fencing, that Stan was pushing himself a little too hard. He had been all day, from all of their workouts to now, gritting his teeth in frustration. While he'd, for the most part, grown out of his childhood asthma, occasionally it would flare up, leaving Stan wheezing over their sink like he was trying to breathe through a straw. After a few moments, however, Kyle refuses to worry about him any longer, refusing to show concern, instead standing silently, staring at the wood paneling of the room.

" _What_."

"Kyle, maybe she's right. Maybe we should talk—"

"About _what_. There's nothing to talk about, Stan."

"God, Kyle! What's your fucking _problem_?" Stan startles Kyle in his movements, storming over to him and bodily shoving him to the wall, hand gripped in the collar of his shirt. "Why are you acting like such a fucking brat? Who _hurt_ you?" Kyle's still a little winded from being shoved so hard, his gaze is still a little starry from being slammed against the wall, and he narrows his eyes, shoving at Stan's chest. He wants to push him off, to get him away, but Stan has height and weight on him, and only presses him closer, jaw set with frustration.

"You're the problem, Stan! Jesus _Christ_! You _lied_ to me. We're supposed to trust each other! We're—god, this sounds so _childish_ — we're best friends! What else are you keeping from me, Stan?" His hands push pointlessly against Stan's shoulders, and he grits his teeth. Stan laughs, bitterly, and rolls his eyes. He releases Kyle for a few moments, taking a pause to pace around the room. He's pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit that Kyle absorbed, too, and the familiarity stings like a slap in the face.

"What do you want me to _say_ , Kyle? That I fucked Kenny, and, yeah, I kept it from you, because I knew you'd fly off the goddamn handle when you learned about it. Because it doesn't fit your perfect little fantasy about the four of us growing up and living perfect little lives, yeah? Wake the fuck _up_ , Kyle. But you're right. I'm the problem. Sue me for trying to continue working with you because, oh, I don't know, saving the world is a little more important than my sex life." Kyle hears a snort by the stairs, and it causes both himself and Stan to start, turning sharply to the interruption. Craig is hovering by the door, leaning against the wall, and he blends so seamlessly into the shadows Kyle has a hard time believing he's there.

"Shockingly, I have to side with Stan on this one," he laughs, though there's no humor in his tone. Craig's voice is monotonous as ever, sounding almost synthesized, and the pure control he seems to have over his actions is something Kyle can't look away from. He slides his hands into his pockets and slinks down the stairs, approaching Kyle with an intensity he'd rarely seen directed toward any single person. He looks effortless, sliding toward him, and Kyle shrinks away from him the second the taller man is in his face. "In case you forgot. This isn't a fucking rom-com. You don't get to ruin everything because _you're_ not the one getting his dick wet." Stan makes an offended sort of sound, gawking, but Craig pays him no mind, staring blankly at Kyle. His entire presence is calmly threatening, like the silence before a thunderstorm begins. "Get your shit together. Else, if the kaiju don't kill you, I will. I'm not going to let everyone here die because of _you_." He reaches up to tap the tip of Kyle's nose with his fingertip, lips quirking up in the ghost of a smile. "Figure it out."

With that, he turns on his heel, flipping them off before floating out of the room. Kyle can see Stan seething out of the corner of his eye, and part of him is surprised that Stan still feels so defensive. "Tucker!" He shouts, voice breaking in his frustration, and Kyle cooly raises his eyebrows. 

"You don't have to be my knight in shining armor, Stan. He's right." Stan's eyebrows raise, and he wants to argue, and Kyle knows, instantly, that Stan's confused why Kyle changed his stance so quickly. The truth was, he didn't want to be angry anymore. He didn't want to continue to throw a fit because he got his feelings hurt- he wanted to get over it, get over Stan, and do his job. (Maybe if they got rid of the kaiju, they'd never have to talk again, and Kyle could curl up in an apartment somewhere and never think about this for the rest of his life.) He starts walking out of the room, knowing that Stan will follow- and there's only a moment of hesitation, a frustrated sigh before Stan falls into step beside him, jaw still set in anger.

"Where the fuck are we going? Also, I'm still waiting on an apology."

"You're not getting one."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Eugh. Even if I don't trust you, we're going to force a drift so that we can do our fucking jobs, Stanley."

"Seriously, dude?"

Kyle doesn't answer, feeling his frustration hit a peak before settling back down, a heavy black ball in his abdomen. He doesn't want to be upset anymore, wants to forget about this and, apparently, have a purely professional relationship with Stan. He doesn't want the others around the dome to look at them strangely, doesn't want Kenny to swerve to avoid him, doesn't want Butters' sympathetic glances. He doesn't want to be the centre of attention, anymore. When they arrive at the practice drift chamber, staring at the almost primitive pons, Stan has to phone Wendy and beg her to mediate. When she finally arrives, eyes narrowed with latent frustration, it's with Kenny in tow, hands in his pockets and looking guilty. For just a second, Kyle feels a burst of panic, a burst of hurt in knowing that Kenny McCormick would be the one to witness whether or not Stan and Kyle could drift again, but the logical part of his brain took over to remind him that Kenny was the only one who had consistently monitored their drift patterns since the beginning. If something was amiss, he'd know far sooner than Wendy would. When he notices Kyle's scrutinizing stare on him, he sinks lower into his hoodie, offering a timid, uncharacteristic smile that Kyle barely returns.

The resulting silence while Wendy hooks them up to the pons, while Kenny starts the computer, is uncomfortable and heavy. Wendy's upset with Stan for breaking up with her after their long-running on again, off again relationship, which he presumably rebounded from with Kenny. Kyle's upset with Kenny for using Stan as some kind of stand-in, and upset with Stan for lying to him. The whole thing feels dramatic, feels like a teenage rom-com gone horribly wrong, and he wishes anyone else were in the room just to cut the tension, even a little.

Kenny mercifully manages to speak up in a low voice after Wendy finishes attaching them, and turns over his shoulder to look at his team. "Ready?" He asks, which was so unlike him that Kyle wanted to scream. Kenny knew when they were ready, because Kenny was the only person who knew them better than they knew each other. Kyle nods, terse, and figures Stan does too, as the loud countdown to neural handshake begins.

The older models feel a little jerky, and there's a twitch of electric pain down Kyle's spine before he's no longer just Kyle, and he's swimming through Stan's memories- or were they his own? Flashes of both of their parents, of Shelly and Ike, of schools and cityscapes and missions, until there's one that catches Kyle's attention. His body hears Kenny mumble something to Wendy, but Kyle's already latched on, feeling Stan protest with what feels like his entire body, but it's too late.

* * *

 

Stan's curled up on Kenny's bed, dressed sloppily in one of Kenny's too tight t-shirts, and he feels ashamed. He hadn't come over with the intent of hooking up, but after seeing the way Kyle talked about Heidi, Stan felt as though he'd been stabbed. Apparently Kenny was all too willing to forget about Butters for a little while, though he refused to look at Stan for longer than a few seconds. Currently, he was seated on the edge of his bed, smoking in long, peaceful drags.

"... Sorry," Stan mumbles, hiding his face in Kenny's pillow. It smells like shampoo, something Stan would soon find great comfort in, and he feels Kenny turn to look at him.

"Sorry for what, dude?"

"... I called you Kyle."

_(Kyle's standing by Kenny's desk, eyebrows drawn, and for a second, he can't breathe. What does Stan mean-)_

Kenny laughs, shaking his head, and taps some ash off of his cigarette, watching it fall to the floor. "My weak maiden heart is shattered, Stanley," he moans, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Melodrama suits him, Stan thinks, too used to seeing him quiet and brooding. "God knows I was only thinking of you." Stan's hand snakes out from under the covers, shoving weakly at Kenny's back, and Kenny howls another laugh. "Seriously. I don't care."

"... You don't even look like him. You're not a ginger."

Kenny raises one eyebrow, suddenly serious, and rolls his eyes. "And you're twice his size and have black hair. But whatever, it's not about that. We did it, we were both wishing we were with someone else, who cares."

_(Stan was thinking of him?)_

Slowly, Stan sits up, rubbing his face with his hands before he grabs blindly for Kenny's cigarette. He lets him, surprisingly, even though he knows about how shitty Stan's lungs are already. "... This doesn't have to be a one-time thing," Stan mumbles, voice hoarse. Kenny doesn't respond, only tilting his head, and Stan puffs a frustrated sigh. "I mean- since neither of us are going to tell them, why not just... Have each other, as a backup, y'know."

"I don't want to get in your way, Stan. He's in your head," he reminds him, poking at Stan's temple with a grin. "It's harder to hide in there."

_(So that's why-)_

* * *

 

They keep talking, but there's no longer any sound, and Kyle realizes that the colors are fading, and they're being steadily pulled out of the memory, to a different one.  
They’re just kids, just kids sitting quietly in Stan’s bedroom, after playing cowboys or aliens or something—Kyle wasn’t sure anymore, because Cartman had kept changing the rules, and then Kenny had to go home, which led them here, curled up quietly on the floor in front of Stan’s bed. He can hear Randy shouting at Shelly, distant, and Stan groans into his hands.

“Fuck. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“You really want to leave?” Kyle always knew he’d leave, always knew he’d grow so far beyond South Park and never look back, but some small part of him had pinned Stan to be one who stays behind, making the town a better place.

“Well, you’re going to leave too, aren’t you?” The question catches Kyle in his thoughts, as though Stan has read his mind. They tended to do that, tended to know exactly what the other was thinking, and it was relieving to have someone understand him so well.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you going to go, K?”

“Anywhere but here. But-… I don’t know, I think I’d like to see the ocean. That’d be fucking sweet, right? Never have to wear a coat again.” He reaches up to play with the bauble atop Stan’s hat, teasingly, and it takes a moment before Stan laughs, too, holding his grin behind his hand.

“I’d go with you. Anywhere,” Stan promises. That comment slows Kyle down, slows his blinking, and he’s left staring at his best friend like he suddenly became a different person. They were friends, best friends, and Kyle knew they were inseparable, but hearing it aloud was different. It made it real, something almost tangible, and he felt as though he could reach out and touch it with a brush of his fingertips.

* * *

 

Soon, his body can hear Kenny and Wendy talking instead, and he feels his eyes flutter open both in reality and in his head. It's always a little confusing, being forced out of the drift, but it's a slow process with the older models, and Kyle slowly regains feeling in his body, rather than just remembering how it feels.

"What's wrong with him?" Wendy's voice is strained, with worry, and the realization hits that she's legitimately concerned for him. Kyle groans from his chair, causing Kenny and Wendy to turn with a start, and Wendy folds her arms. "You chased a memory, again," she chides, Kenny offering a pathetic, sympathetic grin from behind her. Stan's rubbing his forehead, hair on the back of his neck standing on end thanks to the electric impulses from the outdated models shocking him. He groans, too, rolling his shoulders, and Kyle turns to him with a frown.

“I did it on purpose, Wendy,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “But, hey, we successfully drifted.” Kenny grins a little, behind a hand, and Stan nods carefully.

“Why that one?”

“What, Stan?”

“Why that memory.”

Kyle knows exactly what he’s talking about, suddenly uncomfortable, and shrugs his shoulders awkwardly. He leans back in his chair, popping his spine, and shrugs, uncomfortably. Wendy and Kenny are staring at them, expectant, and Kyle doesn’t know what to say. He’s still hurt, still upset, but there’s a new layer to it, now. A layer of understanding that he didn’t have, prior to this, and it settles heavily on his mind. He can practically hear Stan’s thoughts, hear him begging to talk, but he doesn’t know what to do, instead staring silently at the door. He thinks about his nightmares, thinks about his mood changes, and wonders why he’s suddenly become so irrational. It doesn’t make sense, because the Kyle in his memories is different than the one he is now. He thinks about his nightmares, thinks about his memories, and realizes exactly when things changed. He remembers a command from Eric Cartman, he remembers a botched mission, and remembers falling ill not for the first time.

“I need to go lie down,” he mumbles, rising from his chair, and still feels the electric shock in his fingertips, lighting him up. Kenny follows him with his gaze, and looks as though he wants to stop him, but no one moves other than Stan who rises to follow him when Kyle calmly opens the door, walking out silently, and waits until they can no longer hear him before he sprints, nausea rising in his stomach and making him nearly collapse. He turns a corner, down to a hallway rarely frequented thanks to leading to an abandoned research lab on drift compatibility, and falls to the floor, gasping for air and heaving.

Stan rounds the corner, eyes wild with fear, and stares at him. There’s so much he wants to say, so many words bouncing around his brain that Kyle can practically hear, but he simply stands, stiff as a board, staring at Kyle on his hands and knees, gasping for air.

“What’s—”

“I figured it out, Stan. The—they, they’re in my fucking head, Stan. That’s—that’s why I’m like this.”

“What? Kyle, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“The kaiju, Stan, Jesus fucking Christ, they’re in my head—they’re sabotaging us.”

* * *

Kyle's dragged into the small, chaotic research room, pawing at Stan's arm, and he almost wails in protest. Butters looks up with his eyebrows sharply raised, and wonders if they're fighting again. Stan looks worried, though, and before he can really recognize what he's doing, Butters is jumping to his feet, helping settle an extremely pale Kyle into a chair. Token and Tweek look up from their computers, suddenly, though neither makes a move to approach. Stan looks borderline hysterical, eyes shot wide, and he fixes Butters with such an intense stare he's almost uncomfortable.

"What's wrong, Kyle," Butters mumbles, feeling himself stumble over his words, and curses himself for getting so nervous. People didn't just show up in their labs unless something was wrong, that he knew, but it was still unnerving to see Kyle look so pale. His red hair washes him out even more, and he groans. He manages to spit the word 'bucket' before Tweek stumbles over to him with a garbage can, flinching when Kyle throws up into it. Butters frowns, leaning away from Kyle, and he groans into the garbage can again. Instead, he looks cautiously at Stan, as though Stan could answer all of his problems, and Tweek quietly presses a cup of coffee into his hand.

"He... He thinks the kaiju got into his head, somehow. We all- we all know they're a hivemind, yeah? But, fuck, he thinks they somehow got a... A ghost drift with him, or something, and they're sabotaging us. That's why- that's why we haven't been able to ambush them, that's why they've been studying us- because, fuck, because they know." Stan sips the coffee, even though it's still steaming, and shakes his head. "It makes sense- it, it was only after fucking- fucking _Cartman_ had us go get the brain, and Kyle got the blue, yeah? Fuck. _Fuck_." Butters glances to Kyle, face still in the garbage can, who nods, weakly. Quietly, Butters nudges the garbage away from Kyle's face, notices the slightly blue tint on his lips, and turns calmly to Tweek.

"Hey, Tweek, could... Could y'call Eric? And Kenny, too, I guess."

"Gah- you... You really think we should-"

"Tweek, fuck. Please just call them," Stan spits, and Butters peers quietly at him, surprised. He'd never expected Stan to snap at one of them before, thanks to his typically sensitive demeanor, and for some reason, seeing him fight so hard to protect Kyle warms his heart, just a little. Not enough to protect him from the panic, though, because he soon quietly reaches to hold Kyle's shoulders, delicately, and his eyebrows furrow.

" _Kyle_? Kyle, are you sure, have you-"

"When I sleep, I get these fucking nightmares, Butters. Like I'm underwater. And I can't breathe, but- they don't need oxygen, so maybe it wasn't me, but it was one of them, and we killed them-"

"Kyle, you need to calm down-"

"No! I don't need to fucking _calm down_ , Butters, the enemy is in my goddamn head, and we don't know what to fucking do about it! Christ! We won't be able to beat them this way!" His anger is explosive, and, were Butters not so used to it from everyone else, he would've flinched by now. At this point, though, he sits quietly, eyebrows furrowing into a hard line. Kyle looks like he wants to throw fists, like he wants to force everyone to listen to him, but Butters is glowering, frustrated. He didn't want to be talked down to, didn't want Kyle to yell at him- he wanted to be logical, about this. Kyle's mental state wasn't exactly stable, lately, and with Stan being connected to him, his was dubious, too. He wasn't sure whether or not to believe them, though their conviction swayed his heart just a little. But he can't let them get the best of him, get the best of logic, so he leans back, settling his expression with a cool glare, and folds his arms.

"Look, Kyle- I don't want to doubt you, because you have... You have no reason to lie! But we have to explore every option before we, I don't know, quarantine you, or somethin'." He tries to soothe him, but there's a frustration echoing from the drift team that Butters can't quell, can't soothe, and he can tell it's making Token and Tweek anxious, too. Token was never one to be pushed around, but even he didn't seem to want to mess with the dynamic duo, instead attempting to stop Tweek from having a full-stop paranoid meltdown in the corner of the room. As a bit of a saving grace, though, Kenny explodes into the room, staring between Kyle and Stan and Butters before joining Butters by his side, asking for as quick of a summary as possible. Butters explains, quietly, keeping his voice low so that Kyle can't hear him, and watches the color drain from Kenny's face. Kenny's jaw sets, and he suddenly looks as though his life is collapsing in front of his eyes, and he swallows hard. 

"Do you think that's true, B-Buds?"

"... I have no reason not to, honestly."

Kenny peers quietly at Kyle, eyebrows furrowed suspiciously, and there's a few moments of hesitation before he offers Kyle a shy, nervous grin. Kyle tries to smile, too, but there's a lurch before he's gagging, again. Stan looks like he wants to faint, or like he wants to beat the shit out of someone, so Butters allows himself to quietly drift to Stan's side, placing a calm, steadying hand on his shoulder. Stan almost jumps at the movement, staring at Butters like he's just been burned, and his eyebrows draw together. "Hey, Stan," he murmurs, tugging him slightly away from Kyle in order to have a more private conversation. "You should go get him some water, or somethin'... From the kitchen? And grab Bebe, too." Stan looks like he wants to protest, but another aborted, gagged sound comes from Kyle, so he nods, slowly. Butters almost feels guilty, sending him away, but he knows that Stan's angry, nervous tension only made everyone else in the room more upset, and it was a recipe for disaster. For a few moments, the room is calm, Kenny quietly stroking Kyle's shoulders as he heaves into a bucket, Tweek and Token rushing between computers and radios and phones, trying to get any information about the blue they can. Butters, meanwhile, feels useless. Typically, he thrived in chaos, thrived in an environment where everything seemed to be going wrong, but everyone here was so completely in control that he found himself floundering, before finally settling into a chair beside Kyle and pushing his curls out of his face when he comes up for air. He's sweating, and he looks strung out, and Butters feels a little guilty for being so hard on him. There's a few moments of quiet, of peace, before the door is practically kicked open and Heidi appears, eyes narrowed before she approaches Kyle, tapping her foot.

"Can someone with any level of competence explain why the _fuck_ the ginger is hallucinating that he's being possessed?" Butters lets his eyes slide down to the floor, and he feels very small around Heidi. The more time she's spent with Cartman, the more influenced by his personality she seems to have become. There's moments, there's flashes of her being kind and sweet, but it soon fades away to angry quips, snaps, and criticisms, usually at Butters' expense. She snaps her fingers in his face, as though he's her subordinate- which isn't true, thanks to them both sharing the same position. He looks up at her, eyebrows furrowing, and for just a moment, Kenny looks mutinous. 

"Kyle says that his problems with drifting started when he got the blue, and, uh, the- he's been having nightmares, and uh, he- uh, well-"

"Uh, bah, duh, durr, Jesus, Butterball, learn to fucking _talk_."

He flinches, biting his tongue- and he knew that his stutter came back when he was nervous, knew that it only made him more nervous, and knew that Heidi and Cartman hated it. He wants to learn to talk, wants to figure out his issues, and swallows hard, about to try again when Kenny clears his throat from behind her. She turns to him, eyebrow raised, and gives him a once-over before he finally explains the situation, never leaving Kyle's side or breaking eye contact with Heidi. She scowls, expression dark, before nudging him aside with her hip in order to stand above Kyle, peering condescendingly at him. "So what, Kyle, how do you think we stop it?" He gurgles, opening one eye, and looks so stressed out and sick that Butters wants to beg her to stop interrogating him. However, Kyle sticks to his guns, shifting in order to sit up and stare at her.

"Either I stop drifting completely so they don't know our every move, or we figure out a way to block it out."

"Or," Butters murmurs, voice small. "We use it to our advantage." Heidi turns to him, and he knows she's about to make a joke about him finally having a good idea, but he doesn't give her the opportunity. "I mean, uh, if they can get into our thoughts, we can get into theirs. Turn the tables. And then we can figure out their movements," he mumbles, shyly.

"You mean someone has to _drift_ with a kaiju?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little fun fact for everyone! in pacrim lore, apparently pilots are taught fencing! it's never specified which type of fencing so i'm taking it into my own hands and deciding that they fence sabre (i almost chose épée, but it focuses on contact with the tip of the épée, rather than simply getting hits--not useful for fighting aliens).
> 
> also, sorry this update took so long, i've been playing the fractured but whole. whoops. i didn't beta this and i'm posting this before i run to work but i'll probably edit it later

**Author's Note:**

> pro writing tip: have your main cast not bother to learn the names of your minor characters so that you don't have to name them 
> 
> i have to pay my dues to the fic that inspired me to write pacrim aus in general: authoress' "but for me, there is a storm". if you like haikyuu or pacific rim-or just beautiful writing- i definitely recommend it (it's here, on ao3).
> 
> are stan and kyle going to be a ship? probably. what about everyone else? maybe. who knows where the giant robots will take us. i'll add more tags/characters/ships as we go, but for now, this is what i've got for you, haha.  
> (ps: craig, clyde, tweek, etc--everyone else will show up more in the next chapter.)


End file.
